THE CHILD'S LAST SLEEP. SUGGESTED BY A MONUMENT OF CHANTREY'S. THOU sleepest--but when wilt thou wake, fair child?-When the fawn awakes in the forest wild? When the lark's wing mounts with the breeze of morn? Too deep and still on thy soft-seal'd eyes, Not when the fawn wakes, not when the lark Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet; Thy meek-dropt eyelids and quiet breast; And the glad spring, calling out bird and bee, Thou'rt gone from us, bright one!--that thou shouldst die, And life be left to the butterfly !* Thou'rt gone, as a dew-drop is swept from the bough- Oh! for the world where thy home is now! How How may we love but in doubt and fear, may we anchor our fond hearts here, How should e'en joy but a trembler be, Beautiful dust! when we look on thee? * A butterfly, as if resting on a flower, is sculptured on the monu ment. THE SUNBEAM. THOU art no lingerer in monarch's hall, A joy thou art, and a wealth to all! A bearer of hope unto land and sea- Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles-Thou hast touch'd with glory his thousand isles ; Thou hast lit up the ships, and the feathery foam, And gladden'd the sailor, like words from home. To the solemn depths of the forest shades, Like fire-flies glance to the pools below. I look'd on the mountains-a vapour lay A crown and a mantle of living flame. I look'd on the peasant's lowly cot-- And it laugh'd into beauty at that bright spell. To the earth's wild places a guest thou art, Thou tak'st thro' the dim church-aisle thy way, And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day, And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old, Are bath'd in a flood as of molten gold. And thou turnest not from the humblest grave, Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave ; Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest, Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast. Sunbeam of summer! oh! what is like thee? One thing is like thee to mortals given, The faith touching all things with hues of Heaven! |